


Carry on, Soldier.

by Yourdearestwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Feels, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:42:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourdearestwatson/pseuds/Yourdearestwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visit's Sherlock's grave one last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry on, Soldier.

John was angry. He was hurt and mostly, he was confused. He didn’t understand—and maybe he wasn’t supposed to— as to why Sherlock would do what he did. John was helpless, as he stood where the tombstone was, staring at his own reflection in it. He didn’t like what he saw. He saw a defeated man, a sad man. His shoulders were slumped and he looked old. It had been two and a half years since Sherlock’s fall and he still remembered everything. The game, the chase, the way that Moriarty taunted them both with his name change and his alleged “key code.” He watched his reflection. His jawline squared as he tightened the muscles. Carry on, solider he told himself with a curt nod. 

He tightened his fists to make himself move, but his body refused to follow his thoughts. He stood at attention, for the man that he loved and respected unlike any other. Lines on his face started to relax, even though inside he was screaming. He was crying, wailing to the world about how unfair it was that he had to lose his best friend. That the world snatched him out of his hands just as things were going so well. ”I hate you,” his tone surprised him. It was broken, and he pursed his lips as if that would correct that. “I hate what you did and I hate that you’re gone.” No, that’s not what he meant. Of course not. “You’re a ruddy idiot,” he licked his lips, wishing that his nerves weren’t of steel so that he could shake as violently as he wanted to. Instead, he stood there like the good solider that he was and lifted his chin, as if in defiance to the feeling raging inside of his veins. A long, and almost painful silence hung in the air, dancing with the breeze that chilled his bones. Even the birds didn’t sing as the silence rang in John’s ears as he tried to find the correct words. 

As there were no more words that he wished to express to the dead man, he once again tried to force his body to move. This time, it cooperated. He turned ninety-degrees before looking over his wounded shoulder and down. “you left me,” he hated how he sounded as defeated and depressed as everyone said that he looked. He was the strong one. He was the one that was supposed to fight, the one that was supposed to survive. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw to force down his emotions again. “You left your work and you left the world and I don’t—” his voice broke. Sod this. He wasn’t going to do this. Not today. he turned more until his back was turned to the tombstone. 

Silence surrounded him again as he stared at his shoes. Tears welted in his eyes and he brought a steady hand to them trying to force them away. He stood there and sobbed for a minute or so before his feet were convinced that they weren’t made of stone and started walking with his mind. He stopped. “I love you,” he said.

He turned, “Did you hear me!?” his face was red from crying and the rage that was now replacing the depressing emotions. “I loved you so much, Sherlock,” he gasped for air, his lungs were desperate. He’s almost forgotten what it was like to cry. He hadn’t let go since they buried him, and now he was an exploding volcano; a domino in the effect of the others collapsing around him. 

“I loved you, you idiot!” his voice wasn’t loud, but rather a hushed whisper. He went on for almost an hour naming the times where he wanted to tell the man that he loved him. Finally, the words stopped pouring out of his mouth and he was done. He licked his dry lips and took in the deepest of breaths. He was glad no one was around to hear what he had to say. They’d definitely talk. 

He tightened his fists again and turned to walk away. 

He wouldn’t come back next year.

He said what he had to say. 

Sherlock was gone and John had nothing and that was how it was. 

The soldier walked away, into the sunset knowing that his words were going to deaf ears. 

Then again, considering that they were to Sherlock not much really had changed.


End file.
